


A Rose

by orphan_account



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Birthday, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 23:31:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Balthier has a little something for Basch to celebrate the occasion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Rose

When Balthier presents him with a single red rose in the center of the Rabanastre square, Basch doesn't know what to say. He swallows and nearly looks over his shoulder, thinking the pirate might have missed his mark.

"What...?"

"It's a gift," Balthier says, pressing the stem into his hand. Basch feels the bite of a thorn against the rough flesh of his palm. "I'm sure they lacked such things in prison, so I mean to bring you up to speed on the tradition."

The flower--one of the wild roses of the Estersand--is the same rich red as the single drop of blood beading on his palm, deep and striking in a city of sandstone and nearly palpable heat.

If he recalls correctly, red is for passion and lust, a rose for unrequited longing.

He wonders if the pirate knows what it means.

He also wonders how Balthier would look in red. A wine colored velvet coat perhaps, against the deep tan of his skin, the burnt caramel hair. Or maybe nothing at all, maybe just rose petals.

Basch flushes all the way to his neck, fighting to reel his imagination in. There's the tinniest grin twitching Balthier's lips.

Basch remembers his manners. "Ah...thank you," he says. "How did you...?"

"I'm an outlaw, sir knight. Securing information of a sensitive nature is my speciality." He smiles roguishly.

Basch raises an eyebrow.

"The young princess made passing mention," the pirate admits. "Said you had come to an age of importance for Dalmascan knights."

Basch falls into step beside him, the two of them heading in the general direction of the Bazaar. He passes the rose from hand to hand.

"It is a custom for a knight to celebrate once he reaches his thirty-fifth year," he explains. "A time to give thanks that he is still alive. Still, I truly doubt if Kingslayers are counted."

"Kingslayers?" Balthier cocks his head. "I see no Kingslayers here."

"The people of Dalmasca think differently," Basch says, dropping his voice automatically as they stroll past a pair of Imperials harassing a tall, large-busted girl. In a fair fight, she could probably have taken them both. But Imperials don't fight fair. "They see me as the source of their bondage."

"The people of Dalmasca have been lied to, as I understand it," Balthier says. He's studying a raiment of daggers and other such small blades set out beside the armory. "Would you fault them for their ignorance?"

"Never." He knows he deserves their scorn, their hatred. He'd killed the king, even if his hadn't been the hand that had held the blade. He'd failed to protect, failed in his duty.

Balthier shakes his head. "There you go again, torturing yourself over things you could never have foreseen."

"Am I so transparent?"

Balthier smiles the smile of the cat that already has the cream, and is saving more for later.

"As a crystal vase, my good captain. Now," He puts a casual hand on Basch's arm, guiding him toward the far end of the market. His fingers are slender and elegant--they give the illusion of softness, of a life of leisure, but Basch can feel the calluses on his fingertips. "I am going to buy you a drink, and perhaps after the first bottle of Rozarrian wine you will stop looking at that rose as if it were something that might bite."

That makes Basch laugh. He is surprised that he still remembers how. "I apologize for the stiffness of my manner. I am...unaccustomed to such things."

Balthier holds open the door to the Sandsea. Inside Basch can hear the roar of conversation, the twang of some sort of stringed instrument. The smell of whisky and spiced wines mingle to a heady cacophony. He has always liked this pub.

"It's of no matter," Balthier says brightly. "I prefer my men stiff." He glances back at a rather speechless Basch. "Come on then."


End file.
